Sunday, August 2, 2015

Another week closer to release day! I thought it would be neat to let you meet the leading lady and gent of Clean Sweep today. Let's get to know Coach Jane Bratkowski and Tore Ahlberg a little better.

Coach Jane is the only child of retired New York State police officer Jonathon Clinton Bratkowski. Her mother passed away when Jane was quite young. Being raised by her gruff but loving father, Jane has become tough, outspoken, and not one to suffer fools well. She won gold on the USA women`s Olympic team and turned to coaching afterwards. During college she met and married Wildcat player, Tore Ahlberg. They divorced after a family tragedy. She never remarried. Jane is in her early forties.

Tore grew up playing hockey in Sweden. After coming to the States to study history he continued to play hockey. While in school he met and fell in love with fiery redhead, Jane Bratkowski. Jane and he married and then divorced. Tore played for fifteen years in Philly then retired from the game to become the Wildcats Head of European Scouting. Tore has never remarried.

Here's a snippet starring Jane and Tore--

"Look at this
view." I stepped out on the patio to stand beside my ex. The light from
the moon was just beginning to tint the night sky. Stars were now out by the
thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands. "Pretty romantic."

"Yes it is." I placed my hands on the smooth
wooden railing then breathed deeply. "Do you think they see the Northern
Lights up here?" I asked, my sight moving over the stars winking above.

"I think I read somewhere that there is a town in
Manitoba called Churchill that is supposed to be the premiere place to view the
Aurora Borealis. Seems to my memory that the lights are seen later in the year,
like end of January on through May. Back home we see them earlier, from
September to March in Lapland."

I had to look at the man. He had this wistful sort of
homesick cast to his voice. I should have kept my sight on the cosmos. The soft
glow of the moon made his hair lighter. His mouth was tremendously kissable. I
took a step back from the rail and faced him. Tore continued to study the
constellations.

"We call it Norrsken."

"Call what what?" I asked, wondering if he
still kissed in the same slow, dancing, maddening way he had before. Tore
chuckled.

"The Northern Lights. We Swedes call then Norrsken. You never did have luck with
our language, did you?"

"No, no luck with the Swedish. Or Swedes, I
suppose." A sharp image of our last fight appeared unbidden in my mind. I
was standing at the top of the stairs watching him walk out the front door,
bags in hand, never to return to my life. The fucked up part was that I been
the one to lay the dynamite around the base of our marriage. Me and me alone.
Jane set the explosives then pushed the plunger. Repeatedly. Until the man
could do nothing to make me happy except leave the burning bridge behind.

Tore looked at me. It was too dark to read what was
cooking behind those baby blues of his. The call of his arms and the succor
that they would offer was nearly as loud as the bellow from Kate Fovea about
stew on the table. He reached for my face. I closed my eyes as the back of his
fingers slid over my cheek.

"Maybe if you opened all your closed doors a Swede
could step in out of the cold."

My lashes floated upward when I heard him walking away.
He dropped my overnight bag onto the bed. Tore paused at the door as if there
were something more he wanted to say. If there was, he kept it to himself. He
made a sharp left and disappeared from sight. I stood on the patio, lake air
chilling me to the marrow, until our hostess called us again. A shaky breath
fluttered over my lips. The fists my fingers had been in relaxed.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Please welcome a new friend to our little corner of the interweb! Melinda De Ross is here to share some information about her wonderful looking books, Mirage Beyond Flames and Dante's Amulet.

Italian
businessman Giovanni Coriola and English target-shooting trainer Sonia
Galsworthy have only two things in common—a sizzling chemistry and no desire
for commitment. When they meet in London, the world starts spinning faster and
they quickly become addicted to each other. The incendiary passion between them
skyrockets into smoldering, once-in-a-lifetime love.

Just
as they thought they had things settled, a strange discovery triggers a
mysterious spiral of events that puts their lives in danger more than once,
with no apparent reason.

What
connection could there be between an ancient amulet, a secret society and the
long-dead poet Dante Alighieri? A sinister, complicated conspiracy that
gradually catches up with the characters. And of course, one last twist before
the ending.

Gerard
Leon and Linda Coriola fight for the same cause. The attractive, noble,
dedicated French doctor and the beautiful, sensitive Italian sculptress both donate
their time and money to Hope – a clinic for children’s cancer research and
treatment.

From
the moment they meet, even the air between them crackles with intense
attraction. But her past makes it difficult for Gerard to understand her scars
and battle with her demons.

In
search of a cure for cancer and armed with an innovative treatment themselves,
they leave for Transylvania, that enigmatic land hidden in the heart of the
Carpathians.

There
they get lost and have a bizarre
experience in the Hoia-Baciu forest, nicknamed The Romanian Bermuda Triangle due to all the inexplicable
paranormal phenomena happening in its depths.

But
no one believes them, because they don’t have any proof of said experience. Or
do they?...

Melinda De Ross (real name Anca-Melinda Coliolu) is
an international author of Romanian origin. She writes in two languages, and
her books combine the elegance specific to the European style with the modern
appeal of the American culture. Her favorite genre to read and write in is
Romance, and anytime she prefers to watch a classic movie instead of going to a
noisy club.

I inhaled a good gallon
of icy lake when I first felt the cold water rushing up under my coat. The
shock was incredible, making my brain freak out momentarily. I splashed and
kicked instinctively, my head breaking the surface. Peter had tugged me upward.
Now it was my turn to help him. I tossed my hair from my eyes, gathered the
shivering young man to my side, and pushed through the chunks of ice floating
atop the blue-green water. It was extremely slow going with only one arm to use,
but Peter was now shuddering so violently he couldn`t speak let alone swim.

I had to pause about
three feet from the shoreline to pound on a fault-line with a fist. My fingers
were so cold I couldn`t feel them and I had only been submersed for a couple of
minutes. Pete must be dangerously close to hypothermia. I hammered with all I
had, flogging wildly between hits to keep the two of us afloat. I could just feel the deep sloping side of the
lake with the tips of my toes. If I were a foot taller I`d be able to stand and
keep our heads out of the water. I went under quickly, came back up coughing
and sputtering, and then wailed on the large block of ice barring our path.
Pete was burrowed into my side listlessly. I shook the boy. He mumbled
something vague. I grew even more panicked and slammed the side of my fist
downward. That one I felt. The pain was astronomical. Black dots swam in front
of my eyes.

Peter slipped from my grasp. I pulled his face
out of the water. Shouts echoed off the frozen lake and through the trees. I
couldn`t tell which direction the cries were coming from. Peter`s head rolled
to my neck. Jonah and Julia appeared to my left. I waved and slid under the
water momentarily, pushing like a madwoman on Peter`s limp form. I had to keep
his head above water . . .

Someone`s hand
tightened around the back of my jacket. I came out of the lake gasping wildly
and shouting for Peter. Jonah gathered me into his arms and waded back to shore,
each step out of the water making me tremble with increased vigor.

“W-W-W-W-Where`s
P-P-P-Peter?” I asked as those long, powerful legs of Jonah`s pushed us from
the floating chunks of ice.

“With his mom,” Jonah
informed me. I was thrilled to hear it. I tried to lift my head to see if I
could find the sounds of mother and sons, but Jonah`s neck was too warm. “I
swear I can`t let you out of my sight for ten minutes,” the man carrying me
said. It was supposed to be funny but his trembling voice told me he was just
as scared as I was.

“G-G-G-Guess you
b-b-b-better keep m-m-m-me close by t-t-then."

“I plan on it.”

*~*~*

An hour later Peter and
I were both sipping our third mugs of hot chocolate in front of a fire so
enormous I feared the massive stone fireplace might not be able to contain it.
Jonah was seated behind me, pulling his fingers through my damp hair and
muttering in his native tongue. Peter`s mother was dabbing inside the lads ears
with the corner of a blanket the boy was wrapped in, she too grummoxing in
Seneca. Pete and I kept giving each other sideways glances.

“Thanks for saving me,”
Jonah`s nephew said into his mug. His cheeks were blooming pink with heat and embarrassment.

“You`re welcome,” I
smiled, eying a tiny marshmallow floating in my cup. “I didn`t do too good of a
job though. If not for your uncle simply plowing through the ice to reach us .
. .”

“If not for you he
would have never made it,” Julia cut in sharply.

“Jules is right. I just
hauled you in a couple feet. You must have swum with him for twenty feet,
Dana.”

“It wasn`t that far,” I
argued.

“Yeah, it was,” Jonah
argued, pulling me back to rest against his chest. I went willingly, scooting
my ass across the glossy hardwood flooring. “Distance is deceiving on water.
Trust me. I saw where knucklehead here was when he went in. What the hell possessed you anyway? Didn`t I tell
you not to step foot on the ice this
time of year?”

“Yeah, but there was
this humongous shape under the ice,” Peter sighed. His brothers were sitting
silently on either side of our little clump, nibbling muffins and drinking
cocoa. “I tried it, you know, and it felt strong. I was just going out a little
bit,” the boy said, shrugging a shoulder that made his blanket slide down over
his arm. Julia quickly covered him back up, tucking the blanket under his chin
just as I do for Rhett.

“Maybe next time you`ll
listen to Jonah when he tells you something,” Julia huffed, rustling the boys
ebony hair with a towel. “Sometimes he knows what he`s talking about,” she
said, catching me looking at her. “Thank you," she mouthed. A mother-to-mother
thing passed between us.

“You`re more than
welcome,” I smiled. She swallowed that down then returned to clucking over her
oldest child. Jonah wrapped his arms around me. I felt the sofa creep an inch
when we both leaned back into it.

“You and me, we got
some serious talking to do,” he whispered beside my ear as his sister chided
her sons repeatedly. With Jonah`s arms around me and dry clothes, I was warming
up very nicely indeed. Whatever he wished to discuss would have to wait though,
because suddenly a nap sounded like the best thing since sliced bread.

Today the talented M.S. Spencer is visiting us again! This time she has some info on her new release, The Penhallow Train Incident. She also is sharing a wonderful recipe with us!

Thanks for having me, Vicki. I hope your readers enjoy the
excerpt and my little extra gift, a recipe!

Today I’d like to look at our hero, Griffin Tate. When not
pursuing Rachel Tinker or a mysterious map to the tomb of the Queen of Sheba,
he is expounding on his theory of recipe migration in the Middle East.

It is generally accepted that the similarity among many
dishes found from the Horn of Africa to Kazakhstan is due to the influence of
the Ottoman Turks. Turkish food, some would argue, represents the epitome of
Middle Eastern cuisine. However, Griffin, hero of the Penhallow
Train Incident has a different theory, worth considering for those of you
interested in how recipes travel. A retired Middle Eastern history professor,
he hypothesizes that dishes such as çaçik (yogurt cucumber salad) or tabbouleh
(bulgur and tomato salad) actually came from the south and west and not from
the north and east. In other words, perhaps they arrived with the cooks in the
Queen of Sheba’s train when she visited King Solomon.

Here is my recipe for tabbouleh, stolen (and modified) from
a Palestinian friend many years ago:

In the sleepy coastal Maine town of Penhallow, a stranger dies on a train, drawing Rachel
Tinker, director of the Penhallow Historical Society, and Griffin Tate, curmudgeonly retired professor, into a
spider’s web of archaeological obsession and greed. The victim’s rival
confesses that they were both after a map to the Queen of Sheba’s tomb, and
with his help they set out to find it. Their plans are stymied, however, when a
tug of war erupts between the sheriff and a state police detective who want to
arrest the same man—one for murder and one for bank robbery. It falls to Rachel
to solve both crimes…and two more murders, if she is to unlock the soft heart
that beats under Griffin’s hard crust.

He sat back. “Okay,
turn left here. Now right on Union Street. There it is—Salmonello’s.” He chuckled.
“Not what you’d call a felicitous choice for a restaurant name.”

They walked into
what a native Mainer might envision a traditional Italian trattoria to be. That
is, if a traditional trattoria consisted of a room filled with Formica tables
and farm implements, a salad bar, and a wall of pinball machines. “Doesn’t look
like lobster roll is on the menu. Too bad,” Griffin said jocularly.

The place was
empty except for a group of women at the bar talking in loud voices. A girl of
about sixteen with a long braid and braces skipped over to them. “Anywhere.”

Rachel knew that
Griffin was biting his tongue to keep the retort at bay and loved him for it. “Thanks.”

They found a table
as far away from the din as possible, which wasn’t. Griffin ordered a carafe of
their house wine—”please, God, at least make it Italian”—and they perused the
menu. Without looking up, Griffin asked, “So, how did George strike you?”

“He only hit the
furniture.”

“No, I mean, do
you think he’s telling the truth?”

“About what?”

“Really Rachel, I’d
hate to think you’re being deliberately obtuse. His story of Masri’s perfidy.”

“I don’t have any
idea. You’re the Middle East expert. Does it make sense?”

“There are lots of
stories out there of fanatical academics pursuing the elusive tomb or artifact.
It’s not impossible. I have a call in to a friend at Harvard.”

“Harvard? Oh,
right, about George.”

“And one to a
friend at Cairo University about Masri.”

The waitress
plunked a basket of bread and a glass carafe on the table. Drawing two plastic
wine glasses from her pockets, she inserted the bowls into the bases and set
them down. And left. Griffin poured a smidgen of wine into his glass. With an
affected simper, he rotated it, then sipped, holding the wine on the tip of his
tongue before swallowing it. His eyes opened wide. “Whaddya know? It’s
excellent. How refreshing.”

Rachel sipped
hers. “You’re right. Go figure.”

He called the
waitress over. “My dear child, can you tell me the name of this delightful
beverage?”

“Huh? Oh, the
wine? I’ll go ask Dad.” She shuffled back a minute later and read from the back
of her hand. “Tig…Tin…Tignanello, he says.” She read further. “Two thousand
nine vintage. Dad gets it from his cousin in Tuscany. He says it’s ready to
drink now.” She smiled perkily, the fluorescent light pinging off her braces.

“Tell Dad he’s
right. Thanks…”

“Sally. You want
some more time?”

“No, we’re ready.
Rachel?”

“I’ll have the
tagliatelle al ragu Bolognese.”

“The spaghetti in
meat sauce. Gotcha. You?”

“How’s the veal?”

“My brother just
brought it in from Kenworthy Farm. You know, the place that raises all those
weird breeds? Calf got its leg caught in a fence and they had to put her down.
Butchered her yesterday. That’s why it’s on special.”

With a slightly
green face, Griffin handed her the menu. “I’ll have that.”

Rachel laughed. “For
a tough guy you can be pretty squeamish.”

He produced a
rueful grin. “I suppose if I’m going to eat it I should be able to hear how it
made its way to my plate.”

Sally returned and
slid tiny simulated wood bowls of wilted lettuce drenched in what looked like
tomato soup under their noses. “Your salads.”

Rachel took a gulp
of wine to fortify herself and said with determination, “I’m going in.”

Griffin watched
her take a forkful, chew slowly, and push the bowl away. “I hope the wine and
not the salad is a portent of things to come.”

They took a moment
to gaze into each other’s eyes before waking up to the fact that they were
gazing into each other’s eyes. In the lull, while both desperately sought
something to say, a raspy female voice rang out.

“I tell you,
Jackie, that sheriff was way outta line. He as much as told me I’m a liar!”
They both turned to see a woman of about fifty with a staggering cascade of
pumpkin-colored hair. Her red lipstick was a little smeared and her lashes,
thick with mascara, blinked rapidly.

Confirming Rachel’s
guess, a tiny woman with a nose that could follow a cold scent twittered, “Well,
Noreen, you gotta admit your story sounded pretty flimsy. I mean, there were
witnesses who saw John on the train.”

“Witnesses? A
bunch’a tourists who were busy watching that moronic cowboy show. Probably didn’t
give him a second glance. John’s not exactly a standout in the looks
department. I love him for his personality.”

“Personality? Or
money?” The klatch broke out in snickers.

“Laugh all you
want, Ellen. I’ll swear he was with me that day.”

Someone in the
back of the pack cried out, “And what day was that, Noreen?”

She hesitated. “Last
week. I forget the day exactly.”

Jackie piped up. “It
was last Saturday.”

“Wait a minute.” A
tall, gaunt woman in jeans spoke slowly. “Wasn’t Stan Holiday up here with you
last Saturday? I thought I saw you two on the sidewalk by the cafe.”

Noreen gulped down
her beer. “That was earlier, Betty Jo. John came by later.”

Betty Jo seemed to
mull this over, then stubbed out her cigarette. “But I ran into Maude Jewett in
the Penhallow co-op last week and she told me Stan was supposed to drive the
train.” She wagged her chin. “That he missed it because he was with you, Noreen.”

The
voices rose and intertwined in a cacophony of anger and insults and the women
spilled out the door.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Although M. S. Spencer has lived or traveled in five
continents, the last 30 years were spent mostly in Washington, D.C. as a
librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter, editor, birdwatcher,
kayaker, policy wonk, non-profit director, and parent. She has two fabulous
grown children, and currently divides her time between the Gulf coast of Florida
and a tiny village in Maine.

Sunday, July 26, 2015

In just over three weeks the first Venom book will be released! To say that I'm excited about the women of my fictional team hitting the ice would be an understatement. I am thrilled to be able to share these wonderful ladies with my readers. I hope that you enjoy each book. I know I ran a full range of emotions with Clean Sweep as I wrote it. Laughter and tears were my constant companions as Jane and Tore's book flowed onto the paper.

In this blog exclusive excerpt Coach Jane takes a ride over the river to check out her new team with Tore Ahlberg, her ex-husband. Make sure to add Clean Sweep to your Goodreads Want-To-Read shelf! I hope you enjoy the snippet.

A door attendant doffed his cap
at us as we stepped out under the porte-cochѐre.
Tore left me with the doorman, a jovial black man by the name of David Colby
Jr., to fetch his car. When the silver Jeep Cherokee pulled up five minutes
later, I jumped inside, wishing I had brought a thicker coat.

"Have
a good day now, Jane," David said then closed my door soundly.

"He
calls you Jane? After five minutes?" Tore asked his tone a wee bit
possessive. I peeked through my lashes at the man as I buckled my seatbelt.

"I
happen to be a people person, unlike you, who are happy to lounge in a corner
sipping Aqua Velva, or whatever that stuff was you pulled out every
Christmas."

"Akvavit." He gently corrected as he
pulled out into morning traffic. "I could never keep up with your outgoing
personality that much is true."

"No,
you couldn`t." I turned my head to try to drink in the city that I would
be calling home. It was all a big blur though. None of it sank in. My mind was
spinning in reverse, taking me to a holiday season umpteen years in the past.
One that involved Tore and I making love in front of a live fir covered with
lights, bows, and little gingerbread men he and I had baked while we sipped akvavit from tulip-shaped glasses. When
next I peeked at him, we were on I-95 headed for Trenton. He was intent on the
road ahead of him, his shoulders tense, his jaw set, like a pilot trying to
avoid a barrage of surface-to-air missiles. I felt a need to break the ice. But
how?

"You
don`t need to worry. I won't forget to stop to get you some new clothes. Those
smell like wet dog."

Well
there was a conversational opening if ever I heard one.

"Thanks."
He threw me a fast look then returned to navigating the interstate. And there
went that conversational opening. Shit balls. I cleared my throat. Let it never
be said that a Bratkowski could not find something to converse about. "So
you ever get remarried?"

Our
eyes met over the console. The Jeep swerved a bit. Someone hit his or her horn.
Tore turned his attention back to traffic.

"No.
No, never."

"Once
bitten, twice shy?" I asked with humor. The jest zoomed over his pale
head.

"I
thought about it once. She was a nice woman who dated me for over a year.
Pretty and a decent cook. No zip though," he said with a toss of a
shoulder into the air.

"What
had no zip? Her food?" I asked, keenly interested to discuss the nice
woman who had almost won over Tore.

"She had no zip. She was flat,
lifeless…fireless."

"Oh."
I looked straight ahead, suddenly acutely aware of myself, the slight stink of
dog rising off me, and the slow creep of heat slithering up under the freckles
on my cheeks. I chewed on my tongue, and several other things, until Tore took
a right off I-95. We pulled into a chain store with lights just blinking to
fluorescent life. I exited the Jeep like a thief. The store manager gave me a
dour look as she unlocked the front doors. The entire five minutes it took me
to pick out a skirt, blouse, and ugly old lady shoes, I thought about what Tore
had said about the fireless nice woman. It took all the fortitude I possessed
to walk across that empty parking lot after paying for my clothes. Bolstering
my flagging courage, I yanked the door open. Tore was sipping on a hot
beverage. One awaited me in the console. The interior of the Cherokee smelled
like a Starbucks.

"Black,
one heaping sugar." He nodded at my coffee. I tossed the bag into the
back, closed the door, and then took a long sweet sip of starter fluid.

"Perfect."
I sighed, my lashes fluttering with pleasure. He smiled. The dimple appeared.
The coffee in my stomach gurgled. We found an exit then merged back into
traffic. After emptying half my jumbo cup, I unsnapped my belt then climbed
over the console into the back.

"What
are you doing?" Tore asked over the pinging of the seatbelt alarm and the
soft rock radio station.

"Getting
changed," I said as I wiggled around. I glanced up to see his eyes in the
rearview. "Pay attention to the road, Ahlberg."

"You're
so prim of a sudden." He chuckled then looked from me to the cars in front
of him. I kicked off my still damp sneakers, peeled off my shirt, then wriggled
out of my jeans.

"God,
who picked this shit out?" I muttered as I looked over the frumpy brown
skirt and vivid yellow blouse. What the hell had I been thinking? I avoided
yellow, red, and orange like the plague normally. See, this is what mooning
over a man does for you. It makes you pick out gruesome clothes at a chain
store. When I returned to the front, Tore gave me a fast once-over. Wisely, he
clamped his mouth shut. "I know I look like something a cat regurgitated
on the carpet. Thank you for not pointing it out."

"You're
the prettiest cat puke I ever saw."

"You
Swedes sure know how to sweet talk a lady." I smiled into my coffee. The
rest of the trip to Jersey felt a trifle less constrictive. Maybe it was Seals
& Croft playing on the radio. Or maybe it was the soft humming of the big
man seated on my left? Hell, maybe it was the superlative coffee. It sure as
hell wasn't this damned hideous blouse.

Coming 8/17/15

About Me

I love worn jeans, belly laughs, reading and writing lusty books, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, Marvel comics and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) I share my life with my husband,my daughter, one dog, two cats, a couple of steers, and a flock of assorted domestic fowl.